Chapter Text
“Oh, come the fuck on, Trish!”
Mista waved his fork around for emphasis, tagliatelle and all. Drops of sauce went flying, but he seemed too invested in his conversation to care. One drop landed on Fugo’s fingernail; with a scowl, he flicked it flying back at Mista’s face. Number Two shot up and gleefully gobbled it out of the air like a greedy shark swallowing krill.
It was a good day, Giorno thought to himself, when he didn’t have to pry Fugo and Mista apart. It helped that Sheila E was sitting between them; Mista always insisted she come along when the four of them managed to line up their schedules for a meal together, partly because she was a moderating influence on Fugo, but mostly because they would then be a party of five.
“Mista, you’re talking with your hands full again.” Giorno spoke evenly, deliberately winding noodles onto his own fork with practiced care and taking a delicate bite. Delicious. The pasta here, in the private dining room at their favorite restaurant, always reminded him of Bucciarati. It was comforting, even when he had no need for comfort. He often thought about what price he would put on the place, with all that it had given him in the past six years, but any number seemed too small; he could never bear to think of taking the sweet old owner’s life’s work away from him. Selfish, really, to even imagine it.
“Sure, Giorno.” Mista put down his fork and leaned on his elbow. “But seriously – Trish – you could go around and pick up literally anyone off the street. I refuse to believe that it’s ‘hard’—” (Mista completed the phrase with mocking air quotes.) ”—to find a committed relationship when you get actual kilos of fan mail every week gushing over how much everyone loves you.”
Trish looked across the table at him with heavy-lidded eyes and a raised eyebrow. “Not everyone is as horny as you are, Mista. Not even these two.”
Fugo, who had been taking a relaxing gulp of wine, nearly choked and started coughing. Sheila guffawed, and Trish winked at her.
Giorno felt his cheeks start to burn despite himself. Murder, torture, disemboweling, and madness he could take in stride, but whenever his friends brought up sex, he always felt unprepared – inadequate, really, and certainly inexperienced. It wasn’t his fault, he assured himself. He’d been very busy with other things during his twenty-one years.
“Trish – that’s not—” Fugo sputtered. Sheila put a napkin to his lips, which he meekly took, choosing not to bring further attention to himself.
Mista seemed unbothered and undeterred. “Everyone needs human connection, though. ‘Intimacy’, right? You’re telling me you just walk around lonely all the time? You don’t stay awake at night thinking of having someone else next to you?”
Trish’s eyes grew a little wider as she took a sip of her own wine – a California rosé, which Giorno had picked out for her last birthday. “I think you may be revealing more about yourself than me, Mista,” she replied. Even Fugo smiled at that. “Besides,” she said, “are you sure everyone needs intimacy?” She tilted her head a little to the side.
Mista suddenly seemed a little more guarded. “I mean, that’s not really a fair comparison, is it…”
It took Giorno just longer than an instant to realize that they were talking about him, but by then the temperature had already seemed to fall. Fugo and Sheila were very intent on studying their food. Trish seemed not to notice the tension her words had created. Time itself seemed to grow gray and lengthen, and no one else at the table dared make eye contact with anyone.
Giorno quickly ran through his internal catalogue of expressions and picked out a well-practiced, winning smirk. “She’s right, Mista,” he said quietly. “Not everyone is as desperate as you.”
Time seemed to flow again, and laughter was heard around the table. Mista clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh!” he cried. “Giorno, mio dio! You wound me!”
But the damage had already been done. The rest of the night was merry enough, but Giorno found himself lying awake in an elaborate (though tasteful) bed, thinking; he wasn’t sure about what, until an irritatingly sticky thought lodged itself in his mind.
This bed was clearly made for two.